


Enigma Histories

by Sotano



Category: Star Trek - Various Authors, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Book: Enigma Tales (Star Trek), M/M, Post-Book: Enigma Tales (Star Trek), Star Trek Bookverse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:07:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24935779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sotano/pseuds/Sotano
Summary: Continuing on from the DS9 book Enigma Tales; bridging the time between their past and future. In the past, Elim Garak is an exile living on a cold space station and Julian Bashir is a Starfleet doctor with a few important secrets. They'd been circling each other amiably for a long time, never quite closing the gap. In the future, Garak is the Castellan of the Cardassian Union and Julian Bashir is a Federation hero, shell-shocked and unresponsive, recuperating in secret under Garak's protection.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 9
Kudos: 41





	1. In the interest of cross-cultural cooperation

Garak stared gloomily into his plate, and Julian couldn't help a small smile. His Cardassian lunch companion was rather heavy-handedly soliciting a worried "what's wrong, Garak?", but Julian refused to take the bait. Instead, he focused down on his food, which was delicious, and let his friend pout. Garak, of course, wanted Julian to use his Starfleet Medical privileges to get a certain rare, slightly contraband delicacy without paying Quark's exorbitant fees. Julian was completely sure that Garak could procure the chocolates if he wanted, as he'd done so before, but Garak rather enjoyed seeing how far he could convince Julian to go, especially by using the sympathy play. Something about Julian's Federation values, making him an easy target. But he'd caught it early, this time, and he couldn't stop himself from laughing when Garak sighed dramatically.

"What?" Garak asked, drawing up his mock-offense at Julian's giggles.  
"Nothing," Julian said, shaking his head. "It's just... Have you ever heard the term 'crocodile tears', Garak?" he asked, finishing the last of his meal and moving on to the tea.  
Garak quirked an eye ridge.

"I can't say that I have," he said. "A human phrase? It doesn't quite translate. What, pray tell, is a crocodile?"  
"Well," Julian said, mirth pulling at the sides of his mouth. "At the risk of being wildly offensive--"  
"--not that that's stopped you before, dear Doctor," Garak interjected.  
"Indeed, nor has it stopped you. Or, need I remind you of a little incident involving a Bajoran war history panel and a man simply attempting to offer a 'Cardassian viewpoint'?"  
Garak's eyes glinted despite that he was still trying to maintain an air of put-upon suffering.

"At any rate," Julian continued, "a crocodile is a type of large reptile, on Earth."  
"Charming," Garak demurred. "And I suppose you're going to compare me now, to an unintelligent house pet?"  
"A house pet!" Julian cried, laughing breathily. "Whatever gave you that impression? No, not at all. Crocodiles are dangerous predators. They lurk, with their heads just barely above the water, waiting for mammals to drink and let their guards down."

Garak straightened, as Julian sipped his tea. "Why, then, are you so preoccupied with their crying?"  
"Why, indeed?" Julian replied, putting down his mug. "You see, despite being predators, crocodiles have tear ducts. However, they only cry in order to wet their eyes; often when the eyes have been out of the water for a little while. So..." he trailed off, waving a hand, taking a sip of his tea.

Garak seemed to take a little of his meaning. "So they seem like they're crying, when in fact they might be hunting," he said, in that slow, teasing, methodical manner that Julian sometimes forgot lurked underneath the veneer of his humble tailor friend. There was something dangerous about the way his entire being seemed to shift, and yet Julian never really felt afraid with him.  
Julian hummed in affirmation of Garak's hunch, finishing off his drink.  
"We used it often as a charge against politicians showing hypocritical sympathy, or false displays of solidarity. Or, I suppose, one might say save your crocodile tears, if one's friend was huffing and sighing about something, in order to elicit one's sympathy and trick them into doing something wildly irresponsible."

Garak drew up, preparing to act affronted, and Julian stood smoothly.  
"And with that, Garak, I'm afraid I've got to run," he said, "seeing as how you've already ensured I'll be fifteen minutes late to my shift by baiting me into an argument about Shakespeare."  
"We still haven't discussed some of the more pressing elements of Caesar, I believe," Garak pointed out, though he'd dropped the pouting act. Julian was ecstatic.  
"Fine," he said, grinning, "if you'd like, we can discuss it after my shift is over."  
"Here?" Garak asked, a little incredulous. "I don't know how much discussing you expect to be able to get done on the night of the last workday, in the replimat."  
"Quark's, then, and we can go back to my quarters if it's too noisy."

Julian didn't miss the sudden dropping of Garak's incredulous expression, and the easy smile that replaced it which suggested that was exactly what his friend wanted to hear. Well, fine. Julian had finally won one of his little verbal sparring matches with Garak, he could at least afford the man a small consolation prize. Especially since he had an ace up his sleeve for tonight. He turned and left the replimat, but was fairly certain he caught Garak watching him on his way out. Two aces up his sleeve, rather.

After his shift was over, he sent a quick message to Garak and practically raced home. He showered and changed quick as anything, trading his Starfleet uniform for black slacks and a turquoise shirt; perhaps a little more like a lateral move than an actual stylistic change, but he was at least trying to piss Garak off and he actually rather liked blue. Like the slightly terrifying steel-blue gaze of Garak's that could put seasoned criminals on the back foot.

Julian still hadn't managed to beat Garak to Quark's. The man was dressed in a swirling, dark red suit jacket, with his usual thermal wear underneath. He'd picked a spot typical of the Cardassian's taste, on the middle level in partial darkness and with a good vantage of the rest of the space. Julian waved up at him conspicuously, just to ruin the Cardassian's mystique. He went to the bar and bought a bottle of wine at what he was fairly certain was a surprisingly good price. Garak must have had a preemptive word.

"Ah, Doctor," Garak said, as Julian reached the top of the winding stairs, bottle in tow. "I see you've brought something to help your argument."  
Julian proffered a glass from his other hand, and Garak took one, ribbing aside. He poured them both a hearty serving, and they ordered only a small amount of food.  
"In the interest of cross-cultural cooperation, was there any character you did like in Caesar?" Julian asked mildly. Garak tilted his head forward perceptibly.

"I suppose you'd like me to say Cassius," he intoned.  
Julian rolled his eyes at the gambit, didn't take the bait, and let Garak continue.  
"In fact," Garak said, switching tactics, "I wonder if he didn't factor into your choosing this particular play. I've read up on your Shakespeare, and he was quite prolific."  
"Yes, but Caesar is his most political play, and I thought it might make a good foil to the Cardassian meditations on power politics."

"Did you?" Garak asked, grinning warmly. "I'm not so sure. I think you see yourself as Brutus, the good man. The honorable man, trying his best to do the right thing. But he's beset on all sides by Cassius, telling him tales and ensnaring him with clever words. Circling him, at all hours of the night, pouring this poison into his ears. Brutus is intellectually seduced by Cassius' trickery, in the end very willingly."  
Garak's smile had changed from something warm and contrarian to something sharp and glinting. His voice had slowed, lowered, and Julian felt a little lulled. He hadn't even noticed until Garak had stopped talking, but they'd both leaned in over the small bar table, so much so that they were intimately close. Heat rose to his face, and he made the conscious effort to shove it aside.

"Well," Julian said. "That is certainly an interesting interpretation. But I worry that you're focusing too much on your meta narrative, rather than the work itself."  
"You're trying to suggest I'm overthinking it," Garak simplified, taking a tentative sip of the wine. Julian waited for his response on the wine, to which Garak made a mildly approving face.  
"You must admit, it would be rather on-brand," Julian pointed out. "It's at least a possibility that I simply thought you'd actually enjoy one of the most celebrated plays in the history of my planet."

"I don't know if I buy that," Garak said. "You're smarter than you like people to believe you are."  
Julian froze, at first, but relaxed. Garak knew. He knew about the genetic modifications, and he didn't care. The doctor repeated it in his head for a moment before continuing.  
"Careful, Garak," he said, tilting his wine glass, "that sounds dangerously like a compliment."  
"Trust you to find the compliment in the insult to your people's literature."  
"Can't things have more than one meaning?"

Garak inclined his head, conceding the point.  
"For example," Julian continued, pressing his advantage. "There's one interpretation of the play that I'm sure you've picked up on, which I've already touched on myself. The political thriller. A treatise on power and the state which might run contrary to your own ideas on the state but is nonetheless focused on the same issues a Cardassian play might reflect on. This is doubly so when one considers the second interpretation as to what the play is about."  
Garak's expression was that of the fish hesitant to take a bite, but he went regardless. "And what else is the play about?"  
Julian put down his glass. "Family, of course."  
The Cardassian frowned, at that. Family was a central element of Cardassian culture, after all. "There's a line suggesting that Caesar's wife can't concieve," he says, hesitant.

"Yes, she couldn't. She never gave him a child. Octavius, later Augustus, isn't his biological son but an adopted one. But there are other sons."  
"Marcus Antonius," Garak demurred. "Who, personally, strikes me as rather more Cardassian than your Cassius."  
"I never agreed to that interpretation of Cassius, if you'll recall. Yes, Mark Antony looks up to Caesar, much in the way a son might. And?"  
"And nothing. In the end he opportunistically schemes to use Caesar's death to launch a political career he'd hitherto been entirely uninterested in."

"Yes, yes, but you're missing the... ah," Julian said suddenly. "You know, I think this might be the result of a bit of that Cardassian superiority complex. You did all your homework about _me_ , about Shakespeare and why I might have picked this out. I'm willing to bet you did next to no research on what actually happened."

"What does it matter what actually happened? The truth is irrelevant. It's a fictional account. After all, no one who's been stabbed that many times has the strength to speak at the end."  
"And I suppose you would know?" Julian asked, without any hostility behind the question.  
"Not really, but you humans are quite fragile," Garak said, halfheartedly, gesturing for Julian to continue.  
"It matters because Shakespeare had two understandings of one of the key characters in the play, because of the source he based Caesar on. The history book he had access to was essentially the Roman equivalent of a gossip reporter, and in it, he relayed a very particular rumor about Brutus' mother."  
"Brutus," Garak frowned. "Brutus, an illegitimate son of Caesar?"  
"Possibly," Julian admitted. "We don't know for sure. Perhaps he didn't, either."

Julian watched something click into place for Garak.  
"So," Julian said. "He was perhaps, as you say, seduced intellectually by Cassius. Or, maybe, he was a man struggling to decide if Caesar had ever really accepted him. He saved Brutus' life, once, and heaps him with praises and accolades and _power_ , yes, but..." Julian left it to hang in the air.  
"But he never acknowledged him. He never... Hm."  
"It reminds me of that Cardassian pulp genre you mentioned, once. Brutus is guilty of a stabbing, and now it's up to us to decide _why_. Was Caesar a tyrant, or a bad father, or neither, or both? How much was Brutus aware of any of it? Was Cassius' hypocritical promise right, that empire was inevitable, not for the reasons he thought, but because Caesar's successors were all too broken?"

"An enigma tale," Garak supplied. "A _human_ enigma tale."  
Julian nodded. "I thought you might like it."  
Garak sat back, contemplative. "Fine," he said eventually. "So we're both Brutus, then."  
"I'll drink to that," Julian said, grinning, raising his glass for a toast. Garak's glass touched his, and despite his defeat, not to mention the terribly personal subject matter, he seemed to be in extremely high spirits.

They'd finished the bottle, and dinner, and Garak suggested he might call it a night.  
"Oh go on, Garak," Julian pouted, still basking in the glory of his twin victories today. "You don't open the shop tomorrow morning, what's the harm in staying up a little longer? For me?"  
Garak made a show of being won over. "Fine," he said. "But we're not drinking any more of this human alcohol, it's simply too weak."  
It was true, with Julian's enhancements he was barely buzzed. Before, he might have tried to act up his drunkenness, and he was relieved not to have to play that game. It made him think how tired Garak must be, keeping it all so twisted.

"Quark's kanar is a travesty," Julian complained.  
"For once tonight, Doctor, we're in complete agreement. I've got a bottle in my quarters."  
Garak was confident, damn him. He moved to get up in one fluid motion, and Julian found himself following suit.

"Julian," the doctor said insistently. "Ah, well, that is, if you'd prefer. Everyone else has called me Julian from the start, and you only do it in emergencies." It was a bit backwards, really. They'd been friends for this long, and Garak only called him by his name when they were in dire straits. He was the same, though. He'd find some time to point that out tonight. Garak paused. They were very close, again, and Garak's pale blue eyes swept over him.  
"Julian," he agreed warmly. "Of course."

They left Quark's together. At the bar's exit, Garak put a hand to the younger man's hip, and gestured to the left with the other.  
"This way, my dear."

Julian rolled his eyes at Garak's game: trying to ascertain how uncomfortable he was with this turn of events by reminding him what they looked like from the outside. Julian couldn't care less, now that his secret was out and he was free, and purposefully spoke a little too loudly.  
"I know where your quarters are, Garak," he drawled lazily.  
His Cardassian friend grinned and they ducked out.

Garak's rooms were smaller than his, and warm, but Julian was of course only wearing a light shirt. The Cardassian poured each of them a short drink, and they toasted it. Julian made the mistake of knocking it back, and Garak laughed, and chided him, and poured him another.  
"Drink slowly," Garak said, over-enunciating, as if Julian were a child. "Although I'm not convinced that word is in your vocabulary."  
Julian rolled his eyes and pantomimed an extra-careful, dainty sip. "Happy now, Garak?"  
They both sat down on Garak's couch, rather than one taking the armchair. Julian noted that their thighs were touching. As they spoke, Julian was passingly aware that they were growing closer again, just like they were over the dinner table. Perhaps they'd spent too long circling the inevitable. Well, rushing the action was apparently Julian's specialty.

"You can't possibly think that--"  
Julian kissed him soundly, and after only a moment's surprise, Garak returned it.


	2. Scandal, Ghosts, and Politics

Renel paced his office, keyed up from his interaction with the blasted Castellan. Legate Renel was not a born politician, perhaps, but he could play the game. Or so he had thought, until he found himself turned entirely around after a few minutes of the Castellan's singular focus. Unbelievable, that Gul Telek had actually attempted a--what? Assassination? Kidnapping? It remained unclear, and Renel felt as though he was missing some vital piece of context. He felt ten steps behind.

Garak hadn't actually threatened him, nor even told him to quit opposing him. If anything, the reverse was true. When he'd said he was going to continue opposing efforts by Garak and Carnis to undermine the legitimacy of the military, Garak had the gall to _smile_! Was he falling into a trap by continuing to oppose the Carnis Report? Did the Castellan know something? Or did he actually believe in all this "new Cardassia" nonsense? In that case, why did Elim Garak make the scales on the back of his neck tighten?

And what the hell did the man _do_ to Telek? Renel saw him, empty-eyed and shivering in the hospital, and remembered victims of the Obsidian Order. And yet, when he talked to Telek, the man seemed... remorseful. 

This was all too much. He picked up his comms.  
"Feris," he barked.  
"Sir?" Gul Feris answered, sounding like he'd been woken up.  
"What was the name of that invesetigator we spoke about? Tura Something."  
A sound like Feris straightening in bed, sighing.  
"Tura Rake," he said "Operating out of some hovel in Northwest Torr."  
Feris sent the address to Renel's padd, anticipating the request. Renel grunted and pulled off his military jacket, trading it for a more inconspicuous brown.  
"Sir? If I may," Feris said, voice crackling with sandstorm interference over the comms. "This may be... ill advised."  
"Noted," Renel growled, and cut the communication.

He took his hovercar to the southernmost edges of the finance district, a mile north still from Northwest Torr, and parked somewhere innocuous. A military-ID'ed vehicle making a late-night journey from the Akleen military residential areas to lower Barvonok wouldn't raise any eyebrows if he was being monitored. And if someone did see him slip into the seedier, more densely populated Torr neighborhoods to the South, well, there were some explanations with regards to that which might be explained. Of course, Renel was a married man, and happily, and his political career could be irreparably harmed by the idea of an affair, but he'd taken the vehicle ID'd to an unmarried Gul and he'd just have to hope for the best.

This part of Torr was at least slightly decipherable to him: not entirely hostile and not wholly foreign. Sprawling apartment complexes, impossibly full, many partially destroyed and entirely unrepaired from the bombings. Still, Renel had seen what the Dominion did to Lakarian City, he knew it could be worse. The address led him to a relatively whole mixed-use building. A flight of stairs leading up from the street was nestled between gelat houses and corner stores, some open and some closed. People, mostly young, spilled out of some of them, enjoying the cool of the early night.

A Legate would be very out of place here. Renel pulled at his collar, wishing it afforded him some protection, and made his way up the stairs. The office of Tura Rake had a plaque, which was a good sign. Presumably, Rake lived in the back. Renel knocked loudly, for a few minutes before a dishevled Rake opened the door, and looked him up and down in barely concealed surprise.  
"Come in, Legate," he said, finally, moving out of the way.  
"None of that, please," Renel said, looking around the hallway for any listeners.  
"Anyone awake is downstairs at this hour," Rake said as Renel brushed past him into the office. "Can I get you something? Tea? Something stronger?"  
Renel was tempted, until he realized the quality of the kanar a man like Rake had access to.

"I'd rather we just get on with it," he said, and paced the length of the office, turning again. Rake was a slightly thin Cardassian of an indeterminate age. His voice sounded a little older than he looked. Renel supposed, though, that in a crowd Rake might look quite normal amongst the roving bands of students who seemed to constantly be calling for something. He leaned now on his own desk, arms folded, watching Renel.  
"You spoke with one of my men," Renel started, "about a sensitive matter."  
Rake paused, and tilted his head in a conciliatory gesture.  
"I want that matter followed up on."  
Now Rake winced a little.

"As it happens," Rake said evenly, "I did follow it up. Your enemy has a past, everyone knows that, but I'm afraid it's well beyond my abilities to find any of it out. It may be gone for good. That's not a certainty, but I have absolutely no idea myself how to approach it."  
Renel nodded. He knew this was a distinct possibility, but it was still a shame to have wasted a trip.  
"That said," Rake continued, and Renel's gaze swiveled back. "His present is rather more fair game."  
"His present?" Renel asked, incredulous. Why, Elim Garak was acting damned near saintly! He never put a foot out of place.  
"It's not a crime," Rake said, "but it is damaging. A secret, I think, that you would be in a unique position to use."  
Renel paused for a moment. Something current, not a crime. It didn't sound major. Renel had tried a personal attack before, and they seemed to slide off of him like water on his scales.

Hmm. Renel sized up Tura Rake once more. Finally, he nodded. "I'll see to it you receive back pay for whatever investigation into the matter you've made, if it turns out to be something I'm interested in."

Now Rake had to make his decision. The reedy Cardassian took a deep breath.

"I'll admit I'm a little hesitant. I think I had better start by saying I've got a source for this. A nurse, in Garak's employ, who works at the official residence."  
A nurse at the official residence? Was Garak ill?  
"She said something, which I have since verified to the best of my ability, but I know it's going to sound... odd, at first."  
"Out with it!" Renel cried, impatient. He'd begun pacing again.  
"There's a human in the official residence. A human male. I have... reason to believe it's Doctor Julian Bashir, the celebrated Federation hero who fought Section 31. He's comatose. According to my source, Garak... Well, they say he _reads_ to him. I think they're, ah, how should I put this? Involved?"

Renel stopped in his tracks. He wheeled around, took Rake by the lapels and shook. "Do you mean to say that there's a Federation citizen--a Federation _spy_ \--in the bedroom of the Castellan of the Cardassian Union?"

Rake extricated himself from the Legate's grip. "Not, well, that is... Not literally. He's in a guest room, technically. He's unwell. But if you're asking me if he's been in the Castellan's bed, er, _before_ , I'd be willing to stake my career on it."

The Legate began his pacing again, renewed. He'd accused Garak of being, how had he put it, more than half Federation? And Garak had laughed him off, aloud, easily, but his response! Something had nagged him about his response. The Castellan had replied that he was about as Cardassian as they came. But he'd never actively _denounced_ the Federation.  
"He wants us to join," he said to himself, the realization dawning slowly. "It's so obvious now. He's never wanted an alliance at all. He's a Cardassian, all right, but he wants us to be a part of them! He didn't go native when he was exiled, he was seduced! It's a Federation plot!"

This was something. This was--Renel stopped in his tracks again. This was the Dominion all over again! The threat of an insidious takeover, disguised as Cardassian, changing who they _were_. The xenophobes wouldn't like that their Castellan was wrapped around the finger of a non-Cardassian, and the military supporters would have a line of attack that might actually stick, for once. It was perfect, it was the perfect scandal to take down the untouchable Elim Garak.

"I need to leave," Renel said. "I'm going to need your services, again, I'll see to it you get paid whatever is appropriate."  
Renel was halfway out the door when he wheeled back in, manic, pulling out his wallet and fishing his thick hand into it. "In fact," he said. "I need you to start tomorrow. Here's an advance, I want you to find out as much as you can about his inner circle without him picking up on it. And as much as you can about his time on Terok Nor."  
"Deep Space Nine," Rake managed, shocked at the wad of money foisted into his hand.  
"What?" Renel asked, distracted with thoughts of Garak's political career in tatters.  
"The station. We don't call it Terok Nor, it's Deep Space Nine."  
But Renel was already gone, into the cooling night, without having bothered to close the door behind him.

Elim Garak; one-time Obsidian Order agent; son of one of the most feared Cardassians in their storied history; former revolutionary guerrilla tactician and current Castellan of the Union; hung back lamely in a doorway in his own home. Inside, a bed was illuminated by moonlight coming through the window, and the sleeping form of Julian Bashir seemed like a personalized fuck-you from the universe. Garak had a book tucked under his arm that he'd had every intent of reading from tonight, but he couldn't bring himself to turn on a light. In fact, he couldn't bring himself to move, and did he usually have such trouble remembering to breathe? Surely not.

Julian looked peaceful in the moonlight. Whole. When he was awake, if that was what one could call it, he was disturbingly empty. His eyes passed from one thing to the next with no recognition, and Garak's heart cleaved in two each time he saw the man, or what remained of him. But at night? Garak was reminded of one night very early into their association when he'd needed Julian to procure a runabout. He'd simply snuck into Julian's room and waited for the good Doctor to wake. It didn't feel quite so... wrong, somehow, then. Even though, looking back, it should have been seen as a violation of the doctor's privacy. It was a part of their game, and both of them knew it. Besides, they were united in wanting the best for poor Rugal. This, however, wasn't part of anything that Julian was party to. This was Elim Garak at his most masochistic.

Finally he compelled himself to move, but instead of leaving he found himself falling into his armchair facing the bed. He put his head in his hands and rubbed, firmly, as if to push some sense back into his brain, but to no avail. He sighed and sank further into the chair.  
"Julian," he said simply. "My poor Julian."

Did he imagine Julian's eyes fluttering? A trick of the light, perhaps. Sometimes when Garak read to him he got the sense that something was being drawn out. Little movements that only he could coax from the human; that none of the physicians or nurses could seem to explain or reproduce. He coveted them, kept them in his pocket and drew strength from them like a token of affection.

He watched Julian closer now. The man had grown since their time on DS9, considerably. He seemed to Garak a little more balanced, a little more in control of himself, until this business with Section 31 and Uraei wrested that control away in its entirety. Garak had been proud of him, when he'd shown up on his doorstep, asking to be hidden from an omniscient artificial intelligence. Proud of him and utterly terrified for him, of course, in the way that only a former spy could be. He'd tried to warn Julian, but the man was driven. Section 31 had done horrible things to people he cared about, and he was determined to see his crusade to the end.

Julian had been proud of him as well. They'd always remained in contact, and Garak suspected that a part of each of them always assumed they'd get back together eventually.  
"Well, Julian," Garak said, quietly, hands in his straight-back hair, "you do always seem to get what you want in the end."

Garak was tired. He wasn't going to last much longer under the Castellanship, in all likelihood, and he was more than happy to hand things off to Natima Lang.  
"You would make fun, I'm sure. You'd doubt my reasons for retirement, insinuate that I want to read my books and lounge in the sun and follow you around. You'd tell me I've still got it, but you've always vastly overestimated me."  
There could be no response, of course. There was just Garak, talking to himself, in the dark. Something about Julian being this way was mortally terrifying for Garak, perhaps because he had induced or orchestrated to induce a very similar brokenness upon his victims, occasionally, long ago. Now, faced with the monstrousness of it all, the yawning absence of a man, he had utterly no idea how to undo it.

He realized, horribly, that the faintest pinpricking of tears were building in his eyes. It made him laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. He was weary, perhaps, and nostalgic, and he missed like nothing else his close friend. But to cry? Him? Preposterous. He laughed again.  
"I remember, quite a few years ago now, we were having lunch and you mentioned the delightful human phrase--what was it? Crocodile tears. I was charmed; utterly charmed, of course, by you. Finally, you'd begun to really grasp the nature of our exchanges, and you'd quite pulled the rug out from under me. Well," he said, and the weariness crept back into his voice, "they are not crocodile tears now. I'm afraid I'm running uncharacteristically low on deceptiveness."

He shouldn't be talking to a ghost. "You surprised me quite often that night," he continued, half-helpless and half plain fatalistic. "I was speechless no less than four times. You know, my political enemies would all cut off an arm and a leg to be able to render me speechless, and you did it with nothing but a few lines about a play and..."  
Well. He supposed Julian had a few advantages his rivals for power didn't possess. Ridiculous, wasteful body heat in the cold of a Federation space station, for example. Charming curled hair and a shy smile and, frankly, _ludicrously_ long legs.

Speaking of, his had almost fallen asleep. He got up and hesitant, went to the bedside. When he touched Julian's face, nothing happened. When he kissed Julian's forehead, he felt that heat that had once reminded him of home. Not for the first time, he wondered if he wouldn't trade it all for Julian. It was a dangerous degree of sentimentality, but then, he was retiring soon and damn it all, perhaps he didn't deserve Julian Bashir, but the good Doctor certainly deserved better than this. He left, and promised for his own sake not to come back at night again, knowing he'd fail.


	3. One holo-image, three nights, and a cascade of system failures

URAEI(Control) Log Record. Ten past midnight, year 2386.

Run(probability)............  
.........................................  
.........................................  
IF Station: Deep Space Nine = unavailable; unsafe;  
AND J. Bashir = with S. Douglas; Lal;  
WHERE J. Bashir = running; hiding; regrouping;  
99.8% probability......................... will go to E.Dax. +/- 4.2%.  
PROGNOSIS: lay trap waiting with E.Dax.

>>>OUTPUT: PROGNOSIS: FAILURE.  
J. Bashir went to E. Garak on Cardassia.  
LOGIC: unknown.  
PROGNOSIS: FAILSAFE ROUTINE; alert Cardassian agents. run diagnostic to determine source of failed probability prognosis.  
FAILSAFE ROUTINE: activated.  
DIAGNOSTIC: active.  
Run(diagnostic).............  
.........................................  
.........................................  
>>>OUTPUT: DIAGNOSTIC: routine determined lack of information regarding nature of relationship between E. Garak and J. Bashir. MISSING: substantial volume of audio/visual/records from Deep Space Nine re: E. Garak. DURATION: 7 years.  
QUERY: how is this possible?  
Run(query).....................  
.........................................  
.........................................  
>>>OUTPUT: QUERY: possible answer: E. Garak shut out URAEI control accidentally; built his own subsystems in Deep Space Nine to routinely wipe data. Absorbed into URAEI code due to unknown language. URAEI code unwittingly integrated subsystem to ignore/wipe data pertaining to E. Garak.

LOGIC: paranoia.  
LOGIC: unknown code language mixed with oddities of Deep Space Nine systems; extremely effective URAEI exploit.  
LOGIC: hiding relationship with J. Bashir from Obsidian Order. PROBABILITY? y/n.

Run(probability)............  
.........................................  
.........................................  
IF J. Bashir = bisexual, spy fixation, need for approval; E. Garak = lonely, frustrated;  
WHERE E. Garak = charmed; J. Bashir = intrigued;  
AND E. Garak finds out about genetic modification;  
AND E. Garak holds no prejudices about genetic modification;  
82.8% probability......................... J. Bashir successfully instigates romantic relationship. +/- 4.2%.  
17.2% probability.......................... E. Garak refuses, on the grounds of safety. +/- 4.2%.  
PROGNOSIS 1: E. Garak is an exploitable blind spot. J. Bashir will not defeat FAILSAFE ROUTINE, due to over-trust in the capability of E. Garak to protect him.  
PROGNOSIS 2: Deep Space Nine data re: E. Garak a new priority; add to code.  
PROGNOSIS 3: Purge bad code.

>>>OUTPUT: PROGNOSIS 3: SUCCESS.  
>>>OUTPUT: PROGNOSIS 2: SUCCESS. new data re: E. Garak supports majority probability; taken from a source uncontaminated by rogue E. Garak code: offline Padd designated "Wartime Journalism" owner: J. Sisko. see datapoint E. Garak 448: holo-image at Quark's; Deep Space Nine.  
>>>OUTPUT: PROGNOSIS 1: SUCCESS.  
>>>FAILSAFE ROUTINE: SUCCESS.

\-----------------------------------

Cardassia: Office of Legate Renel. Ten past midnight, year 2387.

Legate Renel looked at the official holo-image of Julian Subatoi Bashir that accompanied the rather thick profile Rake had sent him. The doctor was vaguely known to have been on Cardassia after the whole debacle with a rogue Starfleet AI. Or, to be politically sensitive, a rogue Section 31 AI. He was a bit of a hero, and there was a little ceremony to honor him, and it was assumed that he'd been taken back with the Starfleet delegation several months ago. No one would have assumed he was being treated at the official residence, or being tended to by the Castellan himself, if Rake's sorce was to be believed.

The image almost seemed to say it all, really. A good looking young man; especially by the sorts of standards certain Cardassians might have. He thought of the Bajoran woman Feris' father used to follow around during the occupation. Dark skin, long, almost ridiculously fragile neck. Cute bushy hair. Yes, Renel could imagine that for someone like Elim Garak in exile, Doctor Bashir might make a charming respite.

He was surprised to find out that Bashir had been... modified. On Cardassia, such procedures were relatively unheard of because of the danger to the child. Few parents would ever take the risk, and those that did would certainly be looked down upon. It might make sense, though, for a human spy to undergo the kind of enhancements that can't be seen. He wondered if the Obsidian Order didn't do the same, thinking of Garak's terrible, predatory mental alertness.

Looking at Bashir, though, he had a moment of doubt. This wasn't the face of a spy. The young man in the conservative Starfleet uniform smiling with a sort of nervous charm. Why, he seemed hardly more than a boy! Renel knew a few spies in his lifetime. Obsidian Order types. They were all to a man ordinary, normal, until put in the right light. Or rather, the right context. Then, too late, of course, they looked deadly. Something sharp in the eyes that transformed the whole face; made you wonder why you didn't realize right away the utter danger that had always been present; the same trick Renel knew Garak could use. The doctor's eyes were just... trusting.

There was a later photograph, after a year of war, and it looked a little older, a little rougher but there was still something missing. Some quality. He didn't even have the face of a soldier, which Renel knew much better than that of a spy. There was finally a sort of hard set to his jaw, but beneath it all was still that almost anxious earnestness. Somehow, this Julian Bashir worked for Section 31, exposing the rogue intelligence and bringing the shadow organization down. He had undeniably been an active spy for Starfleet on multiple occasions; including some prior to his crusade to take down the AI.

He reviewed the file instead. Met Elim Garak at a bar. Had lunch with him every week for seven years. Did time with him as a POW in a Dominion camp, and how the _hell_ it was that Rake managed to find that out, Renel didn't want to know. Considered good friends by most, and luckily for Rake and Renel they seemed to be the source of a not insignificant amount of idle speculation on the station. They split opinion as to whether anything more was going on, but that was to be expected with Garak. Even something so blatantly obvious, when on paper, was made dubious after a few moments in Garak's company. Renel felt sure if he came to Garak with this accusation he'd leave the Castellan's office convinced that Elim Garak was a sexually xenophobic family man with a wife and two kids.

The final two holo-images were his best bet. The first was confusingly labelled "E. Garak 448: Quark's; Deep Space Nine". Renel always had to take a second to remember what the hell Deep Space Nine was supposed to be. Why did Starfleet insist on the most boring names imaginable? The bar; Quark's, he supposed; was dark and busy. The holoimage was clearly taken surreptitiously; and at its center was a Dabo girl smiling knowingly at an odd-looking Ferengi. The background, however, clearly showed an upper level of the bar. Partially obscured by the shadows, Elim Garak; Castellan of the Cardassian Union; could be seen, unmistakably and rather ardently kissing a dark-skinned Starfleet-uniformed human.

He looked at the second holo-image, put them side by side. A distance shot in broad daylight, showing a bedroom in the official residence, somehow quite clear even though Renel was quite sure there was supposed to be an interference zone to prevent these sorts of things. Although, now that he thought about it, there was a screen inside the room which looked dark. Perhaps it was during a blackout. Guls, that Rake was cleverer than Renel had been expecting. And a lot more dogged. The shot showed a room through a large window, and a bed next to that blacked out screen. In the bed, the selfsame dark human was resting with an IV drip attached to his forearm. Next to him, in an armchair, Garak looked sound asleep.

Proof. Irrefutable proof of Starfleet influence in Cardassian politics, in the most sordid way possible. This would end Garak's Castellanship, and finally sink that blasted Carnis report. The Cardassian military would be saved, and Renel would be its hero.

\-----------------------------------

Deep Space Nine: Quark's. Ten past midnight, year 2372.

It took Julian two weeks to wear Garak's defenses down sufficiently. Garak was livid, of course, but he was the one who had caved and kissed Julian in full (partial, said some calm voice in his head which sounded suspiciously like Julian) view of Quark's bar. He was gaping, he realized, at Julian, whose face was still held in his palm. Worse, he _desperately_ wanted to do it again. It required a shocking degree of self-control to keep away, and he tried to pretend to himself that it was just Julian's body heat he was after, but he was fairly certain he'd kiss Julian if the man were below freezing.

The good doctor merely smiled, apparently pleased with himself. He looked a little flushed; and Garak urgently wanted to discover how that pink tinge affected the skin over his neck, his collarbone; another reason to curse that damned ridiculous Starfleet uniform.  
"Oh, come now, Elim," Julian said, as Garak let his hand fall back to the relative safety of the table. "The entire senior command has figured it out already. I'm sure nobody's going to faint because of a little public display in the far corner of Quark's."  
Garak eyed him witheringly.  
"I hate to be the one to have to tell you this, dear boy, but there are more dangerous people in this galaxy than the senior command of Deep Space Nine."  
"More dangerous to you than Kira?"

Yes, Garak thought. Yes, and I should know better, and this could hurt one or both of us, but the war is deepening every day and I _want_ \--"Well, let's not be too hasty."  
Julian laughed. "She asked me quite a few times, rather unsubtly, if you were manipulating me."  
"As if you'd know if I was," Garak pointed out, but Julian was too clever to let him play the villain. The doctor just rolled his eyes.  
"Indeed, she must not think much of your ability to manipulate. At any rate, you're lucky she didn't see the bruises."  
No one got to see anything, wearing the idiotic Starfleet standard. Garak pulled Julian's sleeve up at the wrist inch by inch, revealing two fingerprint sized bruises. Just barely purple on his brown skin. Garak, of course, had little minor injuries all over his back; which was bound to happen when one's partner has genetically enhanced strength and the complete reassurance that, actually, the entirety of his physical strength was extremely welcome in bed.

"These little things?" Garak asked, voice low and rumbling. "They hardly count as bruises."  
"I see," Julian said. "I didn't realize you were a doctor on top of being a tailor, Elim."  
"It's not my fault your human skin is so obscenely fragile," Garak said, kissing his wrist, watching his eyes.  
Julian's pink quality returned with a vengeance; Garak could practically feel his heartbeat spike against his lips. "I--what were we talking about?"  
"Before I so ill-advisedly kissed you? You were about to concede that I am entirely correct about human poetry's many shortcomings, particularly romantically."  
"Was I?" Julian asked, distracted, as Garak ran a hand up his thigh. "Doesn't sound like me." 

Garak felt muscle twitch and tense, and Julian looked increasingly alarmed. Well, not alarmed, per se.

Flustered, Garak knew, wasn't the word. There was a particular and rather distinctive tic Julian seemed to have; which made infinitely more sense once one considered that Julian's brain was essentially a very nervous supercomputer; where sometimes Julian would be caught between actions. It was as if he had been given just one too many tasks to perform; between replaying a physical sensation in his mind, deciding a new course of action, keeping up a conversation, doing whatever background work seemed to always be there, and taking in new sensory information.

It was that cute little pause, stop-start that he'd done the first time they'd met, and Garak had been shocked by its vulnerability. Now, he knew it reflected the incredible gifts Julian had, and he was unspeakably enamored with the fact that all those gifts seemed to be retrofitted in Julian to produce such idiosyncratic outcomes.

"I can be very persuasive. If you'd prefer a demonstration," Garak offered, nodding towards the side exit. They could be in Garak's quarters in under two minutes flat.  
"God, I thought you'd never ask," Julian said, rising to his feet.  
If he were wearing normal clothes, Garak might have used his hasty rise to pretend to straighten them, let a few fingers wander under the line of his shirt, but no. Ah, well. He'd simply have to get it all off once they were past the door. Julian, as if he could read Garak's mind, shot him a chastising look, and Garak raised his hands in mock-surrender as they left down the stairs.

Garak locked his door behind them with an almost frightening degree of enjoyment.  
"Now," Julian said, his odd little earnest expression giving way to something more heated. "Kiss me again, without the audience."


	4. The consummate liar

Garak stepped out of the side exit closest to his office at the Assembly building to utter chaos. Tabloid 'cast journalists, the most regrettable outcome of the newly freed presses, circled and crowded like they intended to trample the Castellan more than interview him, and Garak supposed that was the truth of it in a certain light. He maintained a pleasantly startled expression, as if he was surprised that the crowd was here for little old Elim Garak.

"Castellan, what do you have to say regarding the rumors about an illicit affair with Starfleet personnel?"

Ah.

"Rumors!? What does he have to say about the _evidence_?" a reporter cried out, and Garak recognized her. She was with a more reputable news organization, usually a little sympathetic, and she made a sort of meaningful eye contact with Garak.

Garak's Obsidian Order brain took off like a phaser had been fired. So there was evidence, and it was good enough to be taken seriously. That threw 'deny everything' out, especially without being able to see the evidence. So what were his options? First he needed to know what the trap was. Someone had planned this ambush carefully; knowing Garak wouldn't have had time to learn anything about what had apparently been released to the wider public.  
That meant it was a deliberate political attack. Which meant this was about Carnis, which meant this was someone military, trying to paint Garak as, what? Too Federaji, as Alon Ghemor used to affectionately say, when Garak slipped up and referenced Terran literature. Ah. Unduly influenced; he saw the angle (what was that term from those atrocious films Julian loved so much? Honey-pot?), saw how pinning it to Julian might make it stick a little better. Fortunately for Garak, it wasn't true. Yes, he understood the Federation better because of Julian, and he'd certainly been influenced towards being a better person by the younger man, but there was nothing more insidious than that. How strange that the consummate liar had been saved so often in his recent political life by the truth.

Still, the truth alone wouldn't be enough. He could always pull things in the other direction, though. The thought appealed to him; it was a split-second sort of calculation, a tactic he was always able to fall back on. His signature contrarian muddying of the waters.  
"Is this about Doctor Bashir?" he asked, striking just the right balance between amused, bewildered and saddened.  
"You mean you haven't seen the 'casts?"  
"Castellan, how long have you been hiding a relationship with a known Federation spy?"  
"Has the Federation had any influence over Cardassian politics?"  
"Please," Garak said, putting his hands up calmly, noting the cameras around him and their positions. "I'm more than happy to answer your questions regarding Julian, but they probably ought to be one at a time if you want a good answer."

The crowd began to sort of mellow and take shape as he stepped forward, until it almost looked like a press conference, and Garak might have invited them here himself. He nodded to the man who had spoken first.  
"Castellan, are these allegations true?"  
"In what sense? Or rather, what allegations? I find I'm at a bit of a loss, as I haven't seen the news myself."  
"Have you conspired to hide a relationship with a Starfleet officer?"  
Garak laughed easily at that.  
"I think you'll find I didn't do much to hide my affection for Julian during my exile on Deep Space Nine. I'm sure we could name several witnesses who might describe my intentions as quite blatant. As to the relationship itself, Julian and I were more than friends for a brief period around a decade ago, now. He saved my life on several occasions, and though I tried to return the favor I believe I'm still down a few."

A bit of a clamoring from the reporters, and this time he picked a friendly face; the woman from the Free Cardassia Times.  
"Why is Doctor Bashir currently on Cardassia?"  
Yes! A perfect question, asked not a moment too soon. If she'd asked right away about Federation loyalties, he'd have to have them take him at his word. This was currently a story about a Federation plot to control the Cardassian Union, but he was fairly certain he could talk it down to a story about a wartime indiscretion, so long as he could keep control of the conversation.

"Julian came here for shelter I was happy to provide, during his ill-advised but ultimately successful crusade against the Federation's Section 31. I knew about his mission, then, and suffice it to say I approved even if I didn't like the idea of him getting into that much trouble. He and his girlfriend, the late Sarina Douglas, regrouped here to figure out their next steps. When the dust settled, Julian was badly injured and Ms. Douglas had given her life to fight Section 31's tyranny. I was the nearest of the people he felt could be trusted; those of us from his Deep Space Nine days; and as you know my advisor Kelas Parmak is also a doctor of some renown, so it was only fitting for him to recuperate here.

This is all a matter of some public knowledge, though, and I suspect you really meant to ask why he is _still_ here, after the Federation sent its delegation to Cardassia two months ago. The truth is that Doctor Bashir's state is not one of recuperation but of catatonia. He's remained unresponsive since the final confrontation in his quiet war, and quite simply I am unwilling to risk his health further by having him moved a great distance through space."

He took a deep breath. This was the part where he could push back, far enough in the other direction that accusations couldn't find purchase. It meant trouble, for him, but hopefully even more trouble for his accuser.  
"I am also more than aware, in fact painfully aware that the Federation is what got Julian into this mess to begin with. If Starfleet had been held to its own ideals, Julian Bashir would be healthy and whole, and I don't know that I can trust that Starfleet has entirely purged itself of Section 31. Frankly, right now, I don't trust them with Julian's life."

It was the best kind of lie; one so close to his actual feelings as to almost functionally be true. There wasn't a lie detector in the known universe that would have been able to call Elim out in that moment. The second, more buried, perhaps more _accurate_ truth was that Elim Garak was a possessive old lizard who didn't trust _anyone_ with the health and safety of Julian Bashir except himself and Kelas Parmak. 'Anyone', however, was an umbrella which covered the Federation easily enough.

That 'admission' set the journalists back. A few tried to run up that line of questioning again, with one asking if he thought ties to a Federation spy compromised him as a national leader. It was honestly a fair question, so of course Garak only half-answered it.

"I'd love to know how you expect Julian to be spying on me from a state of almost complete unresponsiveness," Garak said, smiling in that same sad-amused manner. There was a scattered laughter, and he resolved to add something self-depreciating to the mix.  
"I'd also like to point out that for the entirety of the time that I knew the good doctor, that's all he was. A good doctor. All this hero-spy nonsense came much more recently, and I knew from the start that his intentions were to double-cross 31. We hardly exchanged more than a few words about Cardassia, or about ourselves, although I'm sure I came off as terribly jealous of poor Ms. Douglas."

Which, of course, had amused Julian to no end, and now that the poor woman had sacrificed herself for something so ridiculously honorable, Garak felt quite guilty about his behavior. At the time, it felt harmless. Sarina had seemed... nice, but Julian wasn't good at sticking around for anybody but Elim Garak, and they both knew it. He suspected Ms. Douglas knew it, too, and didn't seem to be taking her time with the doctor too seriously. Garak remembered a message he'd gotten, after sending his condolences to Julian over his amiable breakup with Ezri Dax during the early reconstruction days. The message had taken a day to reach Garak, filtered through his subroutines still in place within DS9's outflow systems, and it had made him grin insufferably for a week after that. It was a simple text message to his padd:  
"Condolences my arse. Ezri says I'm not over you and the worst bit is she's absolutely right. -J."

That they had hardly exchanged words was, of course, the most egregious lie of the afternoon, but Garak was confident his filters would have scrubbed their digital communications quite nicely. Whatever the evidence was, there was no way anyone could have gotten into the absolute web of obsoletion, degradation and sabotage that somehow constituted the functioning internal systems of DS9.

The rest of the impromptu journalistic ambush was smooth sailing for Garak. Now, whoever had attacked Garak for being too sympathetic to the Federation (and he had a strong hunch as to who that was) would have to contend with what appeared to be a newly-revealed bitter wariness of that same organization.

And he had to do damage control on the other side of things. He stepped into a hovercar, pulling out his comms and whipping up the front pages on his padd.  
"Akret," he said. "I take it you've been watching the news."  
His aide, a middle aged woman with an almost preternatural sense for Garak's dispositions, answered over comms immediately.

"I thought you did very well," she said.  
"I did too, all things considered, thank you. Akret, would you please tell Federation Ambassador T'Rena to meet me at the residence, as well as Natima Lang and Kelas Parmak? As soon as possible."  
"Doctor Parmak is already here. I'll call the other two."  
"Thank you," he said, and thumbed through the headlines.  
Two photographs were side by side; one from a decade ago and one that looked like it was probably taken two days ago. Well, it was a good thing he didn't go for 'deny everything', at any rate. There wasn't a man, woman, or child on Cardassia who would be convinced Garak wasn't head-over-heels for Julian Bashir after seeing these on the 'casts.  
"Julian, when you wake up we're going to have a serious conversation about the shortcomings of a free press," he murmured, drafting a few comments on his padd.

\-------------------------

At the official residence, Parmak was waiting.  
"Elim," he said warmly. "I dropped my shift at the hospital when I heard; I'm afraid I wasn't quick enough to catch you before the press."  
"No one would have been, Kelas. Renel knew I'd be indisposed this afternoon at the Assembly. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if the Assembly's longer session was somehow his doing as well."  
"Renel?"  
"Who else? It had to have been at least a Legate, and he's the only Legate who'd stoop this low. He had to have hired some kind of investigative team to look into my affairs, I can't think of a Legate who wouldn't be deeply embarrassed to by the thought of it."  
"So this is about Carnis," Parmak said thoughtfully.  
Garak nodded.  
"The first indictments are around the corner, that's what I've been seeing to at the Assembly. This attack was supposed to suggest that I only want the reports, and I only want prosecutions to go ahead, because I'm in bed with the Federation. I've instead turned it into a possibility that I have secretly grown to resent the Federation over the last few months, because I rather fairly blame them for the grievous injury of an ex-fling I'm not over."  
"Which, of course, resembles the truth, except for where the Federation is concerned," Kelas said, prodding Garak lightly.  
"Everything for the foreseeable future will be about Carnis. We've got to focus on divorcing Carnis from any talk of the Federation, so I've made that a personal stance to throw the scent off."

The Carnis report. Assemblyperson Carnis was a sharp woman, and Garak was lucky she was spearheading this project, or it would have been killed a thousand times over even with his own not insignificant efforts. These Legates simply didn't understand. Cardassia had to know its past, had to know the horrors of the occupation, not for the Federation's sake or even Bajor's sake or anyone else's sake but its own. Cardassia was a new nation, now, and there could not be anything strong built on a foundation of unknown, unaddressed wounds.

That was why he needed Natima Lang. She was his best piece on the kotra board. He could take this position, and make a space for Lang to be a softer touch on the Federation, and turn all of this into a victory for progressiveness in Cardassia, so long as he could make the upcoming election work.

"Everything for the foreseeable future will be about Julian Bashir, Elim. There will be more questions. You gave a brilliant answer, but there are those who have made up their minds after one look at the human."  
Garak nodded. "I know. I'm working on it."  
Just as Dr. Parmak was looking him over, the Federation Ambassador burst in with an expression Garak knew was as close as Vulcans got to furious.

"Castellan," she said, politely. Even the way she'd come in would have been prim and proper, it was just unfortunate that a tiny bit of that Vulcan strength had given her away at the door. "I trust that there's an adequate explanation for undermining your diplomatic relationship with the Federation in such a public forum."  
Natima Lang emerged from behind her, with a much more understanding expression.  
"There is," Garak agreed. "Or, at least, I think I've devised a workable solution."

"If you hadn't gotten involved with Doctor Bashir, we wouldn't need a workable solution," T'Rena unhelpfully pointed out.  
"Yes, but by that same logic if I hadn't gotten involved with Doctor Bashir, he'd have gone running to Ezri Dax at the first sign of trouble and Section 31 would have killed him, and you and your Federation would still be at the mercy of a secret artificial intelligence bent on galactic domination."

T'Rena paused at that, and Garak hoped that she wasn't taking him too seriously. Natima, at least, smiled.  
"The point being," Garak said, "oh, what's the expression? That ship has sailed. Now, if you'd like to take a seat, I'm going to tell you how we can use this."  
Everyone sat, and Garak laid out a surprisingly ambitious battle plan for the upcoming elections, which he was fairly proud of, considering he'd come up with it on the ride over.

\-------------------------

Garak was going to bed, he swore that he was. He'd spent most of the night in his study already, poring over the latest polling on every social issue imaginable, trying to get a sense for the best opening gambit. Some idiotic part of him wandered straight up to Julian's bedside, as if he needed any reminders after today that Elim Garak was an utter fool. Julian's vitals were unchanged from his last visit. Julian himself looked different only in that his head was turned away. Not that it mattered, but Julian had a lovely profile. Kukalaka rested on the armchair where Garak usually sat, and he honestly didn't know if that was the nurses' doing or his own, but he took the bear and put him down on the bed next to Julian's chest.  
His Cardassian sense of memory tore him back in time to when he'd first met the stuffed bear, and decided that Julian S. Bashir was too good for this universe. There was something almost eerily fitting about himself and Julian together; both crafted so imperfectly by their parents, each terribly in love with the cultures and families and practices that had ultimately failed them dismally as they watched from the outside.

"Hello, Julian," Garak said, sighing, reclining into his reclaimed spot. "I suppose this is a bad time to say I told you so."


	5. Back and forth

Garak had spent weeks campaigning, despite knowing full well he was going to drop out of the race, and leave it to Natima Lang and Renel to fight it out. Lang had already outclassed Renel in their debate, which wasn't particularly difficult. Still, Renel was a different creature to the man who had crowded onto his couch a few months ago, banging on about how Carnis was out of line, expecting Garak to _agree_. Now it was his turn to have a go against him. Hopefully he could put the nail in that coffin, and Lang could transition smoothly. He'd just read her paper on propositions to further integrate the neglected regions on Cardassia Prime, and he was excited for some new blood in the leadership. Her sharpness reminded him just how dull he'd gotten. Still, he took to the stage with a quiet ease. This, at least, he could still do. This one, last thing. The crowd was modest, as was the venue, and he'd insisted on it, so that the issue became small as well. Still, the effect was that the two opposing chairs looked as if they were a props in a play; and that the various journalists and attendants at what was formally a debate seemed more an audience to a matinee. On the 'casts, he knew, this would all look very intimate.

"Castellan Garak, would you like to address the concerns raised by Legate Renel?"

Garak smiled. He felt that sheen of his at its full force, that well-honed suit of armor: calm, relentless agreeableness. It was quite unassailable.

"I'd be happy to," he said, with a cursory nod to the so-called moderator. "I'm not answering these personal questions because I've had a relationship with an alien. If every Cardassian politician who's had relations with an alien were paraded out for the 'casts today, we'd need to clear out the city block to make a stage big enough," he said, with a sort of bored, lightly amused gesture. "One of the many perhaps _unintended_ consequences of Imperial Cardassia, or in my case of forced exile, but I digress."

A good digression. One that subtly reminded people of the old Cardassia. Everyone would fill in the blanks, everyone knew _why_ there were so many bastard half-Bajorans on the planet. Garak just needed their shame to be converted towards ensuring that Cardassia did not return to those ways, rather than towards anything so vile and self-destructive as hating the poor children. He thought of Telek's empty stare, when he'd burst in half-mad, refusing to see himself for what he was, because of what that made his father. Still, digressions had to end, and preferably before he started to think of his _own_ monstrous father.

"Let's be very clear," he said, which in his experience always preceded a lie. Who was he to break such a time-honored tradition? "I am in this position because my esteemed opponent in this poor scandal, the honorable Legate Renel, is concerned about where my loyalties lie. And the Legate is known to be a more or less honest, reputable fellow, so let's assume that concern is real, and not simply a political cloak over his real interests. In that case, I can answer his concerns in a number of ways."  
He put up his thumb, touching his opposite index to it.  
"I can waste our collective time recounting in excruciating detail the nature of a personal relationship, which I'm sure is an unattractive option for all of us involved."  
A scattering of laughter from the audience. He put up his right index finger, moving his other hand's index to count it.  
"I can reassure us all that my loyalty has always been to Cardassia, even or perhaps especially in the parts of my life I've spent removed from my homeworld. This also involves speaking at great length, and saying the word 'Cardassia' so many times it begins to feel as if we're all back in school reading Preloc again."  
The laughter this time was joined by a carefully crafted put-upon smile of his own. He put up a third digit, his middle, and lingered on it for a moment.  
"Or," he said simply, exhaling, "we could look at my record and decide that, really, I'm not particularly partial to any foreign interests, Federation or otherwise, and it was good of the honorable Legate to raise the alarm about my catatonic friend, but we might have gotten a little carried away."

"That's blatantly disingenuous," Renel said. Oh, _disingenuous_. Such a large word for a Legate. Renel's hired someone for this, too, Garak thought mildly. "Mr. Garak is knowingly misrepresenting the scope my concerns, which, by the way, are shared by many Cardassian citizens. There are serious security considerations at play, here, and they deserve to be taken seriously. Are you, or are you not, influenced by the indisputable fact that your romantic partner is a Federation spy?"

Trying to force Garak into a straight answer. Unfortunately, he'd given Garak something else to latch onto.

"You'd like me to take you seriously, Legate? Very well. Let's discuss, seriously of course, what it is we actually mean. 'Security considerations' is a lovely euphemism. You're alleging that Doctor Julian Bashir is manipulating me, or, since he can't very well be doing that, has manipulated me in the past, towards a more pro-Federation stance. That is not the case. My political beliefs are entirely my own; unhappily for many of my peers in the Assembly, as well as my personal friends who can attest to how bad I am at taking advice. If that's not enough proof, we do have a fairly transparent system of government now, not to mention that we have elections rather soon."  
Renel objected, tried to cut in, but Garak's old friend the stonewall was in its best form today. Elim Garak was a man who stonewalled for _fun_.  
"So, if we're being very _serious_ , Legate, the next thing to discuss, logically, is why you would like to make these allegations. As I've said, I'm happy to take you at your word, and I've answered you at your word to the best of my abilities. If you'd like further answers, you need to provide further concerns. I'll give you a little time to offer some. I can even give you a hint. Do you perhaps wish to insinuate that the Carnis report is somehow a product of Federation interests?"  
A good, old fashioned pre-emptive. Now Renel would be stuck looking tediously blatant, no matter what answering charge he took up. Plus, the more time Renel took to formulate an answer, even for a few moments, made it look like he was reliant on Garak's charity.

Renel took a couple seconds, but he looked collected. He looked as though he was only half-listening. Finally, he turned away, to peer out into the sea of journalists and lookers-on.

"The Castellan's ego seems to be in the way of his understanding, as it often is. You assume that my concern is that you're an evil man, trying to craftily sell out Cardassia to your Federation. Cleverly getting the best of all of us, like the _good old days_ , eh? Sorry, but my concerns are a little more realistic. Mr. Garak, have you ever considered, even for a moment, that you might not be a knowing party in Federation influence? Have you ever considered that Dr. Bashir, a man known to be able to keep secrets, even from you, might have influenced you without your awareness? Or is it just too inconceivable to you that someone might have gotten the better of you?"

That was too good, that was too well-positioned. Who the hell had Renel hired? Never mind. Now he could do what needed to be done for Natima. For Cardassia, he supposed, and he was happy to burn a few personal bridges with the Federation for that.

"Plenty of people have gotten the better of me. I wonder, did I ever tell you the story of my time in a Jem Hadar camp? Or, more recently, Section 31 was found to have agents right here, under our noses. I am not infallible, nor would I wish to be. But if you're asking me if I ever for a second believed that Julian Bashir is being used by the Federation to gain an ally in Cardassia, the answer is of course. Whether or not Julian would ever agree to such orders; I am perfectly willing to believe that some higher-ranking Starfleet intelligence type would absolutely love to leverage the good doctor as some sort of bargaining chip to buy influence here. Which is why I didn't get back together with Julian Bashir in my tenure as a politician for Cardassia. Didn't see him, once, until he came to me in an emergency for protection from the Federation, and have since refused them access to him."

Renel was getting better, apparently, at cutting in. Garak wasn't finished, but the answer would stand on its own. He'd make it stand.

"Nevertheless," Renel said, "you can't deny that you were an Ambassador there, and that many of your positions align with Federation values. _If_ that isn't a product of blackmail, or manipulation, it's still very possibly undue Federation influence. I'd like to hope that a Castellan in your position might accept that their judgement could be compromised. Instead of ordering agencies to look into the business of defenseless old veterans from good families, maybe we should be telling them to look into yours. What could Assemblyperson Carnis find in your history, if she was given the time and the funds she's had to persecute our military? It's a fair suspicion that you might be subject to more control than you think."

"That's within your rights as a Cardassian citizen to believe," Garak replied coolly. "Rights Castellan Ghemor died to ensure that we might have, so that the silence that let the Dominion in wouldn't bring down our young nation. Was he too close to the Federation? Wasn't that what the man who killed him thought? If you're simply asking about my personal political beliefs, I'm sure everyone I've ever met has influenced them. I'm sure you've influenced them, too, honorable Legate. I'm particularly sure that they were shaped by listening helplessly from a basement as the Dominion bombed over our heads, watching Cardassians from good, honorable families hold guns to the heads of the Bajoran woman and the rebel leader trying to save them."

That bought him a moment of silence.

"I wasn't in bed with the Dominion, Garak," Renel said darkly. "Damar was my hero, too."  
"Then let his example be of service," Garak said, imploringly, pulling it all back. "Corat Damar understood that the brutality of the Dominion was our brutality. They murdered his children, his wife, just to demoralize him. Isn't that a familiar tactic?"  
"How dare you--"  
"--Legate, I'm not charging you. In fact, I'm completely convinced, down to my bones, that your record is nothing short of virtuous, or the closest to it any men of our generation can be. But if we're talking about _undue influence_ , we should at least consider that you yourself are quite heavily influenced by members of the Cardassian military, retired or otherwise, who would rather their crimes against Bajorans not come to light. Wouldn't it be convenient, then, if the military decided I was some sort of deep agent for the Federation? If they could just dismiss the charges against them as foreign, when there could be nothing more Cardassian?"

"What is _Cardassian_ about punishing the military?" Renel cried. Finally, he'd broken through.

Garak's expression softened. He looked out, and then back to Renel as if sympathetically. If they were closer, he might even have patted a fatherly hand to his elbow.

"As a people, or perhaps as as species, as a general rule we are detail-oriented," he said, and as it often did, his mind brought him to a conversation with Julian Bashir. Everything was making him think of blasted, lovely Julian Bashir. Kelas was right. He pushed past it, but let the weary sentimentality drift into his tone. "Perhaps it is a product of memories which are often more vivid and more immediate than that of other species, and minds that tend to occasionally reject differentiation between the past and present."

"One day, there will generations of Cardassians who do not remember what we did to the Bajorans; and what it made us. I see some of them, occasionally, being pushed along in prams in our wonderful new parks. They're always on my mind. There are many beautiful things about memories that can never feel very distant. I'm reminded of a proud literary tradition born of our unique ways of thinking. There are many dark things, too. The last thing I want for those children is to grow up and do what we did, and live with it forever, and for their children to do the same. Even before the Dominion, Cardassia was not a good or a fair place for a great many of its citizens, and even more of its Imperial subjects. What could be more Cardassian than knowing every detail of what we did? What could be more Cardassian than making sure that our good deeds; our proud accomplishments; echo down through generations, not our traumas?"

With that, the debate was more or less his. He even let Renel talk a little, occasionally, but now the man had been flanked. Attacking Garak for being compromised just left him open to Lang, who could swoop in and condemn them both. And they were both worthy of that condemnation, which was why the whole thing worked so well. Men like them were built by the old system, and even their better acts still lacked the imagination Cardassia would need. He got home and put on the 'casts as he changed out of his clothes. He'd done particularly well on the wardrobe, honestly. A very modern but undeniably Cardassian style. Julian would--

The 'casts were reviewing comments made by Natima Lang. He pulled up the volume, and thought only about electoral politics.  
"I thought Mr. Garak behaved admirably, at least with regards to the more personal side of the allegations. I know what it's like to face uncouth insinuations about choices of partners, but as the Castellan mentioned, it's an unfortunate fact of life that so many of those of us that were critical of the Cardassian state spent time in exile. We're bound to have met some interesting characters, and I'm afraid Deep Space Nine turned out to be a bit of a hive of them."

Lang had indeed faced uncomfortable questions about the Ferengi man she was supposedly rekindling a relationship with. Quark had even been in recent communication with her. When this had all begun, Natima had taken Garak aside and told him that Quark wanted her to pass on a message.  
"He said, he's glad to hear you still don't drink root beer. He also said you'd know what that means," she said, frowning politely.

Garak had laughed quietly and explained their root beer theory of Federation institutional spillover. It was still an apt comparison, and now it had become something of a code between the two of them. When he workshopped speeches with her that became too individualistic, too utopianist, Natima would roll her eyes and mouth 'root beer'. Natima's voice on the 'cast pulled him back out of the memories-within-memories, and he'd been awake too damned long at this point.

"--I still think Mr. Garak's stance on the Federation is a touch too personal, for better or worse. There's a bitterness there that doesn't belong in Cardassian politics right now. I think he's right to point out their hypocrisies, but they're ultimately a flawed organization working towards something good. That's something I think most Cardassians can sympathize with, even if we don't want anything to do with them at the moment. Frankly, wounds are just too open. Our politics should focus on the internal right now, and neither Renel nor the Castellan knows how to do that. Since reconstruction began, I've spent my time not as a politician or a military official but as an academic, and I've tried to focus on what our people need, collectively, to recover and to thrive. I respect many of the Castellan's accomplishments, but--"

He turned it off. She was taking to it like a fish to water. There was nothing to worry about. He thought about her words on the Federation, but they only made him think of Julian. So he went upstairs. Slowly, he was growing more brazen about talking to Julian. Or perhaps he was growing more hopeless. Perhaps it was finally sinking in, that this was all he was going to get.  
He didn't dawdle, at any rate. He just fell onto the chair heavily; buttons half undone on his shirt, jacket somewhere downstairs.  
"How the hell did Quark end up with a woman like her?" he asked Julian. "The universe is such a terribly unfair place."  
Perhaps Julian's enhanced brain could figure it out, because it was certainly past Garak's mental capability to try to discern something attractable in Quark, especially to a _woman_ , with the way he talked about them. Though, Garak supposed the little grifter didn't really believe any of that, if he was with Natima. In the same way that Garak himself might have overindulged in Cardassian-ness, pretending as if he were uncritical of its values, just because he was alone on the station. Julian and his enhanced brain saw through that, at least. And it had taken him years to realize why. Years, Julian had managed to get away with the game. He clung to the fact that he'd figured it out earlier than anyone else, but still. _Still_.

"So, Julian, would you like to hear that I used a trick I picked up from your Julius Caesar today? I'm sure that would make you very happy."

\-----------------------------------

The noise of the restaurant hit Julian all at once. There was a slight ringing in his ear, and he realized his thoughts must have drifted off. Garak was sitting across from him, dressed in a dark green Cardassian-style suit. It looked quite stuffy to Julian, of course, and not for the first time he wondered how Garak would choose to dress, if he wasn't stuck on the human-climate space station. What had they been talking about? What had Julian been up to, all day?

"So it didn't work out with the, ah, Klingon woman?"

Oh, that was right. Garak was rather obviously feigning a disinterest, which always meant that he wanted Julian to know the disinterest was fake. He was fiddling with the fork on his plate, leaned back, leg crossed. He looked entirely at ease, and that was the mood in which he seemed to most enjoy making Julian squirm.  
Julian laughed, a little embarrassed. It hadn't worked out, after all, but blown up right in his face on the first date. She'd said something about 'that Cardassian tailor', and Julian had frowned, stood up, and left. Garak might even know that, but there was no way Julian would be the one to say it. Garak's lip was still split from the beating he'd taken from a bunch of the Klingon men, and Julian felt like a total ass for having even asked her out.

"No," he said, in answer to his question. "I suppose I should have known better, with tensions the way they are. Besides, she was a little out of my league."

Garak's eyebrows went up at the last point, as if he quite disagreed. His pale blue eyes swept Julian over with the regularity and precision of a medical scanner.  
"A bit of a departure from your usual, at any rate," he demurred, and took a sip from his drink. As if Garak had any idea what his _usual type_ was. "Well, at least I get you to myself this afternoon."

That he did. And Julian knew it would be the whole afternoon, too. He'd spent four years trying to tell himself to limit his time in Garak's company. For someone, some _thing_ like Julian, Elim Garak was the most dangerous man on Deep Space Nine. And even if he didn't have one massive secret; one easily discoverable fault that could crack his life right open and swallow him whole; Garak was patently not good for Julian. Hell, he was fairly certain he wasn't good, period. But he was sometimes. Oh, sometimes, and for Julian it was like seeing the final piece of a puzzle lock into place. It was the most concerning part of all of this: at first he'd been drawn to Garak's mystery. It had been a fun, childish game, and Garak had played the mentor. But with every drawing month, that game had fallen back, and now he found that the more honest an estimation he had of Garak, the more he craved the man's company.

All these things were clamoring in the back of his head as he continued his conversation with Garak. One of the many thousand flaws of his shoddily enhanced brain. He thought of Kukulaka in his room, he thought of the experiments in his lab, he thought of the burn he'd treated this morning, of the poem Garak had--

"--fascinating, really, the way the repetition of an act changes its meaning," Garak said. Julian watched the way pink flashed within a grey mouth, and supposed Garak might believe he was watching the injured lip. "Some things, it cheapens. The difference between asking out one woman at Quark's, and asking out sixty."

Julian hummed, thickly ironic. "Such a circuitous way to accuse me of promiscuity, Garak. Almost as circuitous as the Cardassian prose you make me trudge through, so I suppose I can chalk it up to a cultural quirk. I suppose next you'd like to point out that repetition strengthens other things. Religious rituals, for example. Or distillations. Sharing meals," he said with wiggling eyebrows.  
Garak looked up, as if begging whatever gods he believed in to spare him from Julian's simple-minded naiveté. Still, better Garak thought of him as simple than quick. He could never bring himself not to apply his whole talents to his little verbal sparring matches with Garak, but he could at least play to character and hope that kept him within Garak's expectations. It also helped that conversation was simply not one of the things his brain made easier. In fact, almost everything Julian knew about being a good conversation partner seemed to come from Garak, and from a slow osmosis of etiquette from his Deep Space Nine peers.

"Habit and ritual aren't the same," Garak said. "Addiction isn't the same as duty."  
"So the repetition in Cardassian culture is ritualistic and dutiful, but the repetition of an act by another species is mere addiction. Convenient."  
"Take a shared meal, for example," Garak said, as if he were choosing a lofty hypothetical, waving a hand airily upwards. Julian did love how Garak spoke with his hands, it always felt a bit like misdirection. Of course, it was. Garak's entire way of being was a prestidigitation act, but when it was just the two of them across a table, it felt a bit like a private performance.  
"I'll do my best to stretch my imagination."  
"Eating together is always culturally significant, until it isn't. What does it mean to share food in a post-scarcity environment? Two people can get very different things out of the same act. Why shouldn't it follow that two cultures might interpret something differently? For a Cardassian, repetition is illuminating. For a human, repetition is a weakness."

The worst part was, he wasn't wrong. There was a reason why Julian couldn't seem to stomach dating lately; there was a reason why--  
"You assume I'm not learning anything about you," Julian said, shaking his head clear.  
"You assume I'm talking about us," Garak shot back.  
Julian opened his mouth, then shut it again. Of course he was talking about them, what else could he mean? Julian admitting it early had given Garak the upper hand. What was Garak trying to draw out? A confession? That seemed too obvious, though, didn't it? Besides, Julian couldn't, and even if he didn't know the reason, Garak certainly was smart enough to see that. Something in the Cardassian's expression softened, for just a second.

"Julian," he said. Something was strange about his voice. They didn't use first names. Not yet, at any rate. Where had that thought come from? "Don't you think you've been here a long time? What are you looking for in this repetition?"

Their lunch had dragged on, Julian supposed. They'd both finished eating, really, before this conversation had begun. That must be what he meant.  
"Yes," Julian said, and everything around him slowly darkened, distancing itself from him. "Yes, you're quite right, Garak. Really, I had better--"  
But the restaurant was gone, and for a moment there was just Garak's voice, _Julian_ , for a moment in that strange, sad tone. Then there was nothing at all.


End file.
